The weekend had finally arrived and I desperately needed a break from college. I had been studying for midterms as well as rehearsing a Shakespeare and a David Mamet play, so my brain wasn't just fried, was deep fried in academic batter and served on a hot plate of "What's my motivation". The rest of the theater department were going to the beach or some other bullshit cliche destination. I just couldn't. The idea of hanging out with the same self-centered assholes who I had just been forced to work with was not attractive or appealing. A year ago I would have probably gone along with the gang. But a year ago I hadn't been a regular at the Nimitz Road Flea Market.
This was back in the 1980's, when pretty much every city had a Flea Market, which was like a giant E-Bay and Craig's List combined in 15 acres of vacant lot. The Nimitz Road Flea Market had about 200 permanent shops, all of which resembled the ugly child of a Garage and an U-haul Storage Shed. Surrounding them were other vendors who had their own set-ups, from full on wooden buildings to canvas tents. On any day you could get everything from socks to gold chains. Hand crafted gifts of the Orient or a carburetor for a 1965 Ford Mustang. I first went for comic books and old Playboys, as good porn was rare back then, but I got hooked on all the cool stuff and the interesting people who sold them. They all had great stories about the stuff they sold, and were all far more interesting than the other 20 year olds I was studying with at college. Then, amazingly, I hooked up with Sheila, a 40 something-year-old dealer of old magazines. She took my virginity and taught me a lot about sex, and also how to cope when a woman just stops liking you for no reason, which she did. But I found solace in the arms and pussy of Valerie, the 21 year old niece of Bob and Charlene Perrvey who sell video equipment, and also the Denim Queens, Jennie and Francis.
Sheila was way older than me, and Jennie and Francis were older than her. And, so what? MILFS and GILFS, we call 'em today. But back then I just called myself lucky! These older ladies were sexy, uninhibited, and straightforward. And I gotta tell you, I didn't have to over-look the wrinkles and the bit of sagging skin here and there, I gloried in them! Frankly, they spoiled me for girls my own age, who were wont to play mind games and were all skinny with boring bodies that had never done anything or been anywhere worth going. But I never knew how wide that generation gap really was until this weekend.
I was trying to hang out and relax, but on this particular Sunday the crowds at the Nimitz were huge, teeming even! As soon as I entered the Market grounds at about 10 am, Clever Larry shouted at me from the concession stand and waved me over. His middle-aged, deeply tanned face looked flustered, and his customary red bandana around his forehead was already soaked with sweat.
"Hey John! Dude! Bennie and Fat Carl called out and we are fuckin' slammed! You got any pals who you could call in to help us for a little?"
"Hey man, I got you. I can help out."
"Yeah? Really?"
"Sure, let's go!"
I threw on an apron and got to work, running the front while Clever Larry and Smiling Stan got caught up. It was just taking orders and handing out food so it was easy and almost fun. Exactly the kind of thoughtless work I need to get my mind off school.
The late spring heat had brought out the entire town, and business was brisk. Most of the people were in their summer clothes; tank-tops, loose summer dresses and even swimwear. The mood was pretty cool and happy, despite the tights crowds and the humidity. Well, mostly cool.
While I was serving drinks at the Stand, three young women sauntered up to the bar. They were all about my age, 20 or so, and were the epitome of 1985 fashion. There was a blonde with huge frizzled out hair, a wide shouldered jacket rolled up at he sleeves and matching pants. In the middle was a Madonna wannabe, in her case the "Desperately Seeking Susan" Madonna with a short skirt with fishnet hose and sunglasses, a loose denim jacket around her waist and a black bra under a see through shirt. The last of the three was in a short leather skirt with a shirt that had a plunging neckline showing off a generous cleavage. Her chestnut brown hair was also frizzed up, though she had part of it tied up in a red bow, like a mini- pony tail.
Now first off I have to say that while I don't want to be mean, the Madonna girl had no business wearing those clothes. Putting it objectively, she was overweight, and as she was sausaged into her outfit; where ever her skin showed it showed by pudging out. Now there ain't nothing wrong with a big girl, but you gotta dress to your strengths, and this chick was strapping down what should be showing and showing what nobody needs to see. She seemed like she could be cute, but it was hard to tell, which was a quality they all shared. All three of them were wearing way too much make-up, and Clever Larry had taught me that 'the more make up on the outside, the more they're covering up on the inside.' Also as an actor I knew a bit about cosmetics, and these three girls were not very good at it. You could see the boundary of their base, and they had way too much blush, and a burnt umber mascara always works better in the daytime. Yeah, I was Metrosexual before metrosexual was cool.
Worse than all that bad paint, was the sour, bored expressions on their faces. The kind only young people like me have.
All told, you could tell by the look of them that these girls had no-one to tell them "No".
The blonde spoke first. "Do you take plastic?", she asked in a practiced bored tone.
There was a huge sign that said "CASH ONLY" two inches from my face.
"Nope."
"Ghhhhaaawww..." was her response as she turned to the brunette "Holly, give me money."
The Brunette pulled out a twenty dollar bill from a tiny purse and handed it over. The gesture was replete with annoyance. There was so much bad attitude conveyed in her single gesture that the actor in me was actually impressed. "Gag me with a coke spoon, Heather, cash is sooo gross." The Brunette drawled.
Heather, the blonde, didn't respond, she just held the twenty and dropped it on the counter. "I want three diet whatevers and anything you have that isn't fried." I swept the twenty up and returned quickly with three diet sodas and three bags of potato chips.
Big Madonna eyes the chips with derision. "Are those lowfat chips?" she asked...someone. She was looking away from me and wearing sunglasses, so there was no way to tell who she was actually talking to. I heard Clever Larry and Stan snickering behind me.
"No."
"Tsk"
"Here's your change." I handed back five dollars change from the twenty for a seven dollar purchase. Heather never even looked at the money in her hand, just gave handed it to Holly. Heather then looked at me very seriously and patronizingly sneered to me, "You know, sir, if you ever want to increase your sales, perhaps you should include food and beverage items that people actually want. Thanks, buh bye." They flounced off, loudly complaining about me and the stand.
"Now there goes three nasty little fuckettes." said Clever Larry as he emptied french fries from the fryer.
" 'least they were cute.", said Stan.
"Naw man, any pretty those girls got, will be washed away by three seconds of being near those ugly souls." We both nodded. Clever Larry knew what he talking about. Hence, his name.
"Still, I could always use a blowjob." Stan said wistfully.
"Gotta have a low- fat dick, Stan, or else, 'gag me with a coke spoon'.", I said with a perfect imitation of the girls, making them both laugh.
After a couple hours we were all caught up and Clever Larry cut me loose from the concession stand. Wandering about I made my way towards the Blue Jeans Queens' tables to say hi to Jennie and Francis, the two sweet GILFS and Denim Queens of the Nimitz. They had all the denim tops, bottoms and in betweens you could possibly want at the lowest prices in the State. Jennie had dyed red hair, cut short and plastered with hairspray all but for a large curl going up her cheek, like a senorita in a Old West Cantina. She had huge almond shaped eyes and a sultry mouth, which she coated with a lipstick the same shade as her hair. Jennie favored jean skirts and short sleeved loose knit sweater tops that plunged deep into her respectable cleavage. She had dangly bracelets and gold earrings that tended to swing around a lot. Francis, like Jennie, was about 55 or so, slender as a reed, but not bony. Her dyed black hair was done up like Lady Bird Johnson (President Johnson's First Lady) and she wore a tight denim one piece dress with a shiny bronze zipper traveling all the way down to the hem.
But before I got to their Stall, I could hear several voices yelling angrily at each other; all women's voice's too, it seemed. When I got close to the Denim Queens, what seemed...was! And who do you think were in the center of the ruckus? The three Fuckettes!
The girls were yelling at Jennie and Francis, who wore masks of incredulous surprise on their faces. It was quite the dramatic scene, and I took a mental picture of what I was witnessing. Three women, wearing expensive clothes and makeup were acting like complete trashy sluts next to the two older women, who were basically dressed like trashy sluts, in the conventional sense. (Yeah, the conventional trashy slut. What the hell does that even mean?) But while the Queens were acting like adults, Big Madonna was shaking a pair of blue jeans in Jennie's face and yelling about a flaw in the weave, and her whole body was jiggling along with her. Now this was also interesting: in contrast, Jennie, who was about the same body type as Big Madonna, looked sexy as hell. Big Madonna, looked like a sack of shit wrapped in rubber bands. Heather and Holly were pointing at a wet stain on Holly's pants, screaming about dry cleaning bills while Francis tried hard not to laugh in their faces.
Three young horrible women, two older wonderful women. Five women, five different hairstyles, outfits, bodies, sets of tits, pairs of legs, beating hearts, thoughts of love and separate lives which have made them who they were. I watched the younger girls' faces as they caterwauled and expressed their outrage, realizing that somehow they totally believed they were right to be causing such a ruckus over a bad weave and a spilled soda. These girls were terrible people. But perhaps, something could be done about that? We could try direct confrontation, but that would cost millions of dollars and thousands of lives. So that means a daring plan of subterfuge and possibly hi-jinks will need to be employed. If only I had a Flea Market staffed full of people to help me, and access to a well furnished double-wide trailer fitted with secret cameras!
Which of course, I did.
